Giving Up
by Gypsy Love
Summary: Craig and Ellie have a conversation full of hidden meaning and innuendo.
1. Chapter 1

Ellie sat in Craig's garage, sat behind the drum set on the little stool, tapped out a tiny beat. Craig wasn't here. Not yet. He was still mad because she didn't tell him about Ashley. Well, she had wanted to protect him. He was mentally ill for real, he had a diagnosis. He had medication. She cut herself but was that mental illness or just being fucked up? She wished someone would bother to protect her.

She kept tapping the drums, losing the beat and then finding it again. She didn't think Craig's anger at her was just a mood swing, a bi-polar episode. She didn't separate his behavior like that, like Ashley did. He didn't want to be protected. He wanted the truth at any cost. He was mad because she didn't respect him enough to tell it to him straight.

The weak afternoon sun came in on a slant, and Ellie saw the dust in it. It was cold in this garage, and she shivered in her thin sweater. She lightly tapped out her sad rhythm. She wasn't good at playing the drums like Craig was good at writing songs. She wished she was good at something.

"Hey," Craig said, bursting in. His presence filled the room, and Ellie looked at him with her love sick eyes. He was vulnerable. She'd protect him again.

"Hi," she said, trying to tell by his body language if he was still mad at her.

"Been here long?" he said, and she liked the gruff school boy sound of his voice.

"Not really,"

She tapped out a soft jazz beat, and he sat on the couch. She watched him, watched the light fade around him. The jeans he wore were worn and white on the top of the thighs, frayed at the bottom where they dragged when he walked. His hair was shorter now then she liked it, too much like George Clooney when he was on ER. Like George Clooney with curls. But it didn't really matter. She was sure he had some criticisms of her.

"You remember when I used to take pictures?" he said, and she nodded, but she didn't remember it, not really. She knew he had, saw him with that camera around his neck, especially the first year he came to Degrassi. And his father beat him, everyone knew. She'd noticed bruises on his arms, noticed the sleepless look of his eyes. Knew that Sean had helped him somehow, that Sean was involved in getting him away from his father. Sean was a hero, a rescuer. He hadn't rescued her soon enough.

"I don't do it anymore. I don't take pictures anymore," he said, glancing at her. She lightly played the drums, feeling it echo her heartbeat.

"So do you want to start doing it again?" she said, thinking of the fading yellow bruises she'd seen on his side when he leaned over one day in class, his shirt lifting just enough. Thinking of Sean letting her stay at his apartment when her mother drank herself into oblivion. Thinking how her mother had never laid a hand on her.

"No. That's the thing. I gave it up. I don't want to do it anymore. I don't have to,"

She nodded, bounced a little on the stool as the tempo got snappier. Hobbies come and go, she supposed.

"It wasn't just a hobby," he said, reading her mind, "it was a part of me. It was almost who I was, somehow. But I gave it up. You could give things up, too. There's virtue in it, in letting go. You could give up playing the drums,"

Ellie narrowed her eyes at him, slowed the tempo down to ominous jungle drums. He'd sat behind her, his hands on her wrists, showing her how to find the secret heart in the drum's skins. She'd felt his skin near hers, the tension in his muscles. She'd smelled the scent of his cologne and aftershave and laundry detergent, those smells almost more like him then he was. What exactly was he telling her to give up?


	2. Chapter 2

Ellie watched him as he shifted on the couch, as he fiddled with the guitar, as he strummed out a tune that sounded sad and rough. Give up the drums. She tapped the big drum lightly with the tip of the stick. Tap tap tap. Drums could be like a heartbeat or like a driving train. They could be underneath or on top. There was as much meaning between the beats as there was on them. Ellie kept tapping away and she felt the tears start to rise.

How did the photos compare? Trapping everything within the frame, freezing it, making it be what you want it to be like a corpse all dressed up for a wake. Drumming was _alive_. She looked at him with her wet eyes. Did he know what it was he was asking her to do?

In this cool garage, her breath visible in faint plumes. Craig wasn't noticing her. He never did. And it wasn't fair, it wasn't really fair because he was all she noticed.

"Okay, well, maybe I should go," she said, and she heard the tragic sound in her voice, and she felt the hurt look that was in her eyes. Craig didn't see it, shrugged, she could go. It didn't matter to him.

But she didn't go, despite the fact that it was her best option. She set the sticks down, leaned them against the wall and they looked like they were just about to fall. She could still hear her drumming in her head, the beats all running together. She wasn't that good at it, that was true. But was it the whole truth?

She sat next to Craig on the couch and he moved over for her, barely glanced over as her weight settled next to him. He looked at his fingers as they plucked out notes, held the guitar like she wanted him to hold her. She didn't want to give him up, she didn't want to admit that he wasn't into her, that he loved Ashley, that the friendship wasn't working out. She studied his fingernails as he played, saw how they were naturally shiny and a little long. It was always this way with guys. Their nails were either bitten down raw or just too long.

Ellie looked outside at the dimming light. It looked even colder out there, the trees' leaves rustling in a cold breeze. She could feel Craig's warmth. Wished she could feel it in his arms. Wished he might notice her for once. For once in her life.

"About the drums…" she said, looking sideways at the silent drum set in the corner. She felt Craig looking at her at last, the song he was playing suddenly silent. She couldn't turn her head to look at him or she might cry. It was so hard to admit when something should be given up, given away. She couldn't fight with Ashley, she couldn't beat Ashley. She'd listened to him long enough to know Ashley might be his soul mate, or he might think she was. And really, where was the difference?

"Yeah?" Craig said, and his voice made her want to crawl inside herself, crawl inside of him. It made her feel like it was suddenly zero degrees. She shook her head, swallowed hard.

"I'm not sure about just giving them up," Bit her lip, looked sideways at him. His pale skin, his large eyes and pouty lips, his dark hair curling over his forehead. He was so perfect.

"I think you should," he said.

Cold. He started to play his song again, and it was smoother this time. The drums sat mocking her in the corner. Had she ever thought she could play them? Really? She kept missing the beat.

"Well, what do you know about it?" she said, her voice sharp, "what do you know about just, just quitting? Just giving up just like that? Not giving things a chance, not even trying? What makes you such an expert, huh?"

He looked at her calmly and she wanted to hit him, punch him and hurt him because things weren't going her way at all. He was impassive. She couldn't bend him to her will. Just like the stupid drums, she could pound on them all day and never get any better. She just wasn't cut out for it.

She had liked the feel of the smooth wooden sticks in her hands, the vibration that went up her arms as she hit the drums. The different volumes, the different rhythms. She didn't think she could give that up.

"And photography is completely different. It's not music, it's not life…it isn't anything real,"

Wanting a response from him, not getting one. Wanting him to come over to her, tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, kiss her forehead. Wanting to be the only thing in the circle of his attention. She could practically feel him thinking about Ashley.

"Ellie, sometimes you have to let things go," He didn't say it mean. He wasn't mean to her. He was gentle. But he was…something, someway that hurt her anyway. Marco had lied, or mislead her. What good did some soul crushing crush that she had on him do? What good was it doing her? Why, in fact, was she even here discussing this with him? Or discussing anything? Craig was right, in his off-hand asshole way, he was right. She had something to give up and she'd better get started doing it before it destroyed her.

"Yeah, but Craig, it's just that I don't exactly want to…" She could jump on him right here and now, attack him, make him respond to her. He was just glancing at her, doing things, moving things and playing with the guitar and she was only here like some piece of the furniture, like something that was a thing and not real to him.

She was so jealous of Ashley she couldn't even see. Ashley had this, she had _him_ and she left. Unlike Ashley she could deal with the bipolar, with mood swings and medications and therapy. Because unlike Ashley she was broken, too. Ashley was too whole for them. What did he see in her? Little miss perfect? Little miss perfect parents and perfect coping skills and everything always worked out for her what was it? She could beat her head against a hard cement floor and still not know what he saw in Ashley, and why he preferred her.

"I don't think I want to…" Every statement trailing off into nothingness. She couldn't begin to explain. She couldn't make the right decision. And now he was looking at her like she might be unbalanced, unstrung. She was. She was.

"Look, Craig, I'm just gonna go…" Grabbed her coat, shrugged into it, turned the doorknob hard and fast and the door flew out of her hands and she was outside, cool wind on her face. Walking fast. Give up the drums. How could she? How could he even suggest it?

Trees and houses flying by her she was walking so fast but listening for footsteps behind her. She wanted him to run after her, take her in his arms, tell her he was wrong. Kiss her cheeks and kiss her lips, tell her he was sorry and that he hadn't seen before. She wanted that.

She couldn't keep up the pace and she slowed as her breathing became ragged, pulling the cold air into her lungs. She couldn't help but stop and turn around, peer down the dim street that was behind her. Looking. Looking for him. Straining her ears to hear his footsteps as he ran after her. Silence mocked her. He didn't come.

He didn't come. Maybe she should give up those stupid drums after all. After all, he did give up photography. He's given up so much. Maybe she could, too. Maybe, if she tried real real hard, she could learn to let go.


End file.
